


Natural Advantages

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Demisexuality, Drama, Early in Canon, Falling In Love, Family, Flirting, Humor, M/M, Mutual Attraction, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-02-27 04:59:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18732085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: When Dr. John Watson receives a cordial invitation to Mycroft Holmes's 35th birthday celebrations, he finds himself intrigued.  Family and friends converge upon the stately country house, all eager to begin the festivities.  Watson cannot help but note that one family member in particular stands out from all the others...





	1. Chapter 1

When the invitation from Mycroft Holmes arrived on my coir doormat, I must confess I was intrigued. We knew each other, slightly, via a mutual friend – young Adams – but goodness knows why Holmes had quite seen fit to ask me to his weekend lark. A birthday celebration – his 35th – a long weekend, Friday to Monday, held at his sprawling Surrey country house. I replied, of course, that oh yes, please, I would be so delighted. I had not visited before, but knew from Adams that the pile had been inherited, and Holmes had kept it beautifully – apparently. So as the date grew near, I found myself excited quite despite myself, for my work was slow, this time of year, and social invitations few and far between. I purchased a new tailored suit. I buffed my boots, prepared the best I could, and then! the day, at last, when I should take the train, approaching the festivities.

It being June, the weather warm, the train was stifling, but still, I sat quite cheerfully between an elder vicar and a dowager; the latter fair intent on emptying her Gladstone bag in search of something that she could not find: her spectacles or notebook, who was to say? But she was tutting all the same, as if her fellow travellers were all to blame for her misfortune. At our final destination, we stepped down. The sun was blazing now. I gathered up my bags and met the carriage that would take me to the house. I was not the only guest to travel by the train: the dowager was heaving her round frame up on the plate into a seat, just as I strapped my paltry luggage to the rack.

“Good morning, madam,” I said pleasantly, turning around to greet the lady. “It seems that we are travelling together. I am John Watson.” And I tipped my hat.

The lady looked at me severely. “I would far rather that you were my errant husband,” she replied. “He missed the train. Otherwise, we would be three.” She sighed, and ruffled in her bag again. “I have mislaid my lozenges as well. I'm very cross.”

“Oh dear,” I said. Not a dowager at all, then. I hesitated. “But your husband will be following?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” said she, distractedly. “I'm sure he will. He has our luggage, so I _hope_ so, else I'll be wearing this rag dress all weekend long.” She huffed, and squinted at me then. “You are a friend of darling Mycroft?”

“We have a mutual acquaintance,” I replied. “I've met Mycroft several times. He seems quite amiable.”

“Ha ha!” The lady laughed. Her boot heels clicked in some delight upon the carriage floor. “I don't know if I'd call him _that_ , but you go straight ahead, my dear.” She turned her head to watch the countryside flash by (for we were on our way; the track down which we sped was deeply rutted, and the wheels were jarring, jolting, and we found ourselves thrown fair together often, to my discomfiture). “Oh gracious me,” said my companion, “this silly carriage ride is shaking up my _bile_.” She laughed again. “I hope that we'll have cocktails on arrival, Mr. Watson, do you think we will?”

“ _Doctor_ Watson, madam,” I said, nodding, with a smile. “And I suppose we might? I really could not tell you?”

“Oh, oh!” said she. “A doctor!” Then: “Oh, oh!” again. A giggle and a clicking of the boot heels informed me that the lady found this information tickling. I might have queried it, but at that very moment we swung into a long drive, and there – my word! – _there_ was the house directly looming, and now here we were, the horse hooves clipping at the gravel, and now settling to stand before the double oaken door.

“Oh hell. We're here,” the lady said. “And I was starting to enjoy myself. Well, never mind.”

The door swung open as we stepped onto the path, and a young maid bobbed low in curtsey, and a fellow darted out to take my bags and drop them through into the hall. We were informed that Mycroft Holmes would greet us presently, but in the meantime if we might like to see our rooms? 

“I'll see you shortly, Dr. Watson,” said my companion. “For a _cocktail_.” And off she swished. Then, to the footman: “No, no, _no_ , James, I know my room, you needn't follow like a puppy. Go and see to the nice doctor. He's a new blood. Off you go.”

I followed the lad up a long curving flight of stairs to the first floor, and along a corridor to a far room which I was introduced inside. My bags were placed inside the door. I looked around. A pleasant room, in shades of green, twin-bedded, richly furnished, with the windows looking out to the rear gardens, which stretched out admirably far. 

“Thank you, James,” I said. “It's very nice.” I tipped him lightly for his trouble, closed the door, and set about a short unpack. I chose the bed nearest the window, and set my books and things beside it. I hung my clothes inside the wardrobe, and my toiletries upon the marble wash stand. 

There was a rap upon the door. I went to open it, and Mycroft Holmes was standing there.

“Watson,” he said, reaching out a hand to shake my own. “I'm very glad that you could come. How are you finding the Green Room? Not too large for you, I hope?”

“I like it well,” I said. “It seems most comfortable. Thank you for the invitation, once again.”

“Oh, welcome, welcome,” said the fellow. I took a moment to regard him. He was tall, of average build, but with a boding fleshiness about his jaw. His eyes were grey, intense, and piercing. He waved a fulsome hand towards the hall and stairway. “There are some other guests already, you must meet them.”

He made to bustle me before him, but I had questions still to ask.

“Who was the lady I came in with?” I enquired. “Elderly, in the black dress?”

“ _That_ was Aunt Rufina,” replied Mycroft. “She is quite mad. She's lost her husband _and_ her lozenges, apparently.”

“I know.”

“As for the rest of my dear family, that only leaves my brother, and I don't know where _he_ is,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Still in London, I expect, else he's not showing up at all. Adams is here, and so is Eva. There are a few others still to come.”

“How nice,” I said. I left my room and followed Mycroft down the stairs once more and into the front drawing room, where a small group had gathered, talking, by the window.

“Watson!” said Merrill Adams. “It's good to see you, my dear fellow.” He strode forward, pumped my hand, and thrust a glass of some brown liquid into the other. “Have a drink, you must be gasping. Oh, and allow me to introduce you to Miss Eva Worthington.”

Eva Worthington was Mycroft's lady friend, I was informed. She was a bonny thing, and barely five feet tall, with raven hair in ringlets, and a blue dress trimmed with lace and crystal jewels. We exchanged pleasantries, and watched as Aunt Rufina spied her husband from the corner of one eye, so thus to scurry off, her high-pitched trill berating him at volume.

“There's Uncle Rufus,” noted Mycroft. “And now he's in for it, I think.”

“Uncle... Rufus, and Aunt... Rufina?” I said slowly.

“Ye-es. And they've a wolfhound named Ruffles, but that's _quite_ by the by.”

A bearded gentleman passed by the open doorway, sharing some luggage with the footman. At some distance we heard scolding, still, and then at last a peace that echoed oddly through the room.

“Well, then,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I think that's Newton, and his sister Alice, too, who've just come in. That's nearly everyone. Do please excuse me. Eva? Will you?”

Miss Worthington departed on his arm, leaving just two of us around the cocktail table.

“Adams,” I said, “I'm glad you're here. I must admit, I feel a little lost.”

“Oh, that'll pass,” said he. “I say, is Mycroft's brother here?”

“Not yet, but he's expected,” I replied. “Is he the younger or the elder, do you know?”

“The younger, by some seven years,” said Adams. “He's a rum old sort. Eccentric, some would say.”

“Indeed?” I sipped my drink. “And what's his name?”

“Can't recall. It's something strange, at any rate. He might not come. He has these _moods_ , so Mycroft says.”

“I have some of my own,” I said. “Shall we explore a little, Adams? Put down that glass. I want to see the house.”

We wandered slowly to the hall, and peeped into the library. From there we found the dining room, and further down, behind the stairs, the billiard room and music room. The kitchens led away through to the back, and so we ventured past the study and the sitting room, and up the stairs to roam the bedroom corridors and storage rooms. Eight bedrooms, all in total, with seven occupied at present. The house was beautiful and dignified; an emblem of good housekeeping. A further set of stairs led to the attics, I supposed, but we did not go so far in our adventures, and returned to take a stroll within the grounds around the front.

“How many gardeners,” I wondered, “does it take to keep this place in check?”

“Oh, three or four, at least, I'd say,” said my young friend. “But Mycroft can afford them. He was promoted, did you know?”

“No, I did not,” I said, impressed. “I must remember to congratulate him.”

“You'll have the opportunity,” said Adams, “between the egg hunts and the string quartet.”

“The what? But it's not Easter!”

Adams shrugged. We turned to look back at the house. Through the large window of the drawing room, we saw more people gathering. It was almost time for lunch. We headed back, detouring through the trees and hugging at the shade.

“Are you still seeing Cobbs?” I asked.

“Oh no, that fizzled out,” said he. “The scoundrel stole my wallet _and_ my signet ring. Fellows these days, Watson, you've no idea. And what of you?”

“In a dry spell currently, I'm much afraid,” I said. I shielded my eyes as we emerged onto the gravel path. “Goodness, it is hot today. I feel quite overdressed.”

“A dry spell on all counts: me, you, _and_ the weather,” said Adams. “So let's go and have lunch, and to heck with it all.”

The lunch was quite informal, and with just seven at the table I took my time to look around and tally up. At the head was Mycroft Holmes, and ticking clockwise was Uncle Rufus, Aunt Rufina, Newton Cooper, then his younger sister Alice, Merrill Adams, to myself, and Eva Worthington. One place was unattended to my left. I contemplated it no longer than a second, for the chat was loud and frivolous and rather entertaining. I found myself in light debate on something philosophical, and Cooper was disputing with his fork gesticulating in the air, and we were laughing at the mime when the front doorbell rang.

“My brother, late for lunch again, no doubt,” said Mycroft Holmes.

I craned my neck, for I was curious to see.

The maid knocked lightly and came in. “Mr. Joel Dooley is here, sir,” she announced. 

Mycroft seemed much amazed. “Dooley?” he said, frowning. “What on earth? I thought he'd cancelled. Well, then, no matter. Show him his room, Anne, thank you kindly. It's the Blue. Tell him to join us when he likes.” And then, to all of us, when the maid had closed the door: “Dooley's a character. He works in publishing. Don't get him talking on _that_ score, he'll yap your ear off. A dapper dresser, that much I'll say.”

Mr. Dooley was indeed a 'dapper dresser', for when he joined us at the table he was resplendent in a dark plum pinstripe suit, and boots so polished that one might have seen one's face in them (if one had so desired). A handsome fellow, too, though delicate and fine-boned, with a sleek of ash blond hair. I saw friend Adams fairly goggling, and tripping over words to pass the butter dish our way. He caught me after lunch had been concluded, and the guests had wandered off to fresh amusement. 

“Did you _see_ him?” He was breathless. “Good god, old fellow, I'm in love.”

“Love at first sight is quite ridiculous,” I told him. “What would you _talk_ about? You never read!”

I watched him as he gambolled off in search of Mr. Dooley. I passed back through to the hall, with the intent to find my room and change my jacket, wash my hands, and comb my hair.

And then the front bell rang again.

The hall was empty, but for me.

I took two steps and pulled the door open a head's width. A man was standing there, with duffle bag in hand. He was so striking, so extraordinary, my heart beat upside down. I stood and gawked at him, his eyebrows raised in question, as my own danced the quadrille.

“I'm Sherlock Holmes,” said he, at last. “May I come in?”


	2. Chapter 2

I opened the door wide, and Sherlock Holmes entered the hall. He paused to look at me.

“You are the brother!” I said stupidly. 

“Regrettably, I am,” said he.

I offered him my hand. “I am John Watson. I am a guest here for the weekend,” I explained.

We shook hands solemnly.

A bustle from behind me and a loud, abrading bellow informed us Mycroft was in a near and irked proximity.

“Why, _Sherlock_ ,” he exclaimed, “now here _you_ are, and well, I think we have a problem.”

The younger brother sighed. “If I had a shilling for every time I've heard _that_ said...”

“No, no,” said Mycroft, “you misunderstand. Sherlock, your room is taken, I'm very sorry. I thought we'd had a cancellation, but the fellow's just shown up. It would be rudeness if we turned him out now that he's settled in.”

“Where must I sleep, then? In the scuttle?”

“I have a spare bed in my room,” I interjected, all a flutter. “Mr. Holmes is very welcome...?”

The fellow looked at me again. His grey eyes scanned me from my head down to my boots. He seemed to wrestle with a thought, to thrust it down and contemplate a second one. “Oh, I _suppose_ ,” said he.

He followed me, all discontent and pique, up the hall stairs and down the landing to the Green Room. He would not tolerate my wry attempts at humour on the way; he huffed and grunted, and indeed did not utter another word until we entered, whereupon he flung his duffle on the empty bed and followed it thereafter. He lay there on his back, his hands behind his head, his eyes fixed hard upon me as I dithered at the wardrobe.

“You are an ex-army doctor,” he observed. “At a small practice that is somewhat unsuccessful.”

“Mycroft told you,” I said, glaring.

“Mycroft did nothing of the sort. I'm right, of course? I always am.”

The impudence! So why, then, was my stomach flipping coins; why had my fingers turned to gelatin?

“You're right,” I said. 

“I knew it,” he said, smiling. “From your bearing, and your jacket cuffs. They're frayed,” he added, helpfully. “As are the laces on your boots.”

“I'll change my jacket,” I said sulkily, and did so, to a lighter one.

“That's better,” said my room-mate. “Almost dashing.”

I felt the red upon my cheeks, and wondered what on earth was happening. Sherlock Holmes was still laid prostrate, one knee crooked but slightly, with his face still turned my way. He looked delectable and beautiful; all manner of hyperbole so springing now to mind. I sat across from him and combed my hair, to keep my mind from skittering to somewhere it ought not.

“What do _you_ do?” I asked. “Are you a politician, too?”

His face roiled in a horror. “Good lord, no. I work with Scotland Yard quite often, and with private clients rather more. I am,” he said, with some degree of pride, “a consulting detective.”

“Oh, well, it all makes sense now.”

I watched him as he sprang up off the bed, and grabbed his duffle bag. He opened it, commencing then to empty it of content. Shirts and stockings, odd detritus, ties and handkerchiefs, all tumbled to the coverlet. He wrenched a dresser drawer, and thrust the whole lot in askew. His shaving kit, he placed beside my own upon the wash stand, whereupon he turned and looked at me anew.

“I didn't bring a dinner jacket,” he confessed. “I didn't really see the point.”

“You are not staying the full weekend?” I asked, considerably dismayed.

“Oh yes, but well, you know, it's only _Mycroft_.”

I chuckled softly. “Do you two not get along?”

“He's interfering. He always thinks he knows what's best for me.”

“Perhaps he does?”

Sherlock Holmes ruffled his plume and drew himself up to full height – which was considerable – and scowled at me. “I doubt that _very_ much.”

I feared that he might leave me then for company a little more enticing, as he glanced towards the door. I offered him a cigarette. He hesitated, then – _oh, thank you, whoever above_ – accepted it. He sat beside me on the bed and leaned towards me for a light. I held a match and lit his cigarette. He leaned back on one elbow, smoking slowly, eyes upon me.

“You are unmarried,” he remarked.

“Stop showing off,” I said.

He laughed. “Impossible. But answer me.”

“Yes, I am unmarried,” I agreed. I leaned back too, so we were level in our scrutiny. “And you?”

Holmes quirked a smile. “The same,” said he. He tapped his ash into the saucer that I'd placed between the two of us. “So how did you meet Mycroft?”

I explained. Halfway through my explanation, Holmes stubbed his cigarette and heaved himself to vertical; he smoothed out the slight creasing in his waistcoat, and cast a look out of the window. “You barely know him,” he remarked.

“Well, no. But that may change?”

Holmes sniffed. “I'm off to take a walk,” said he. “I'll see you later on, perhaps.”

“I do hope so,” I said, throwing him a look. He caught it blinkingly, and nodded, before turning to the door and stepping out. The door clicked shut. I was alone again.

I sat there for a moment, smoking quietly and thinking, and then I paced for several moments more. I surprised even myself when I set after him in hot pursuit, at distance nonetheless. A dubious attention, and one that Holmes might not appreciate, but well, _he wouldn't know_ , and if he should catch sight, well, then, _what a coincidence! The both of us out walking in this spot!_ (Had I always been so devious? Perhaps.)

Almost everyone was out of doors and sunning on the lawn. Umbrella tables had been placed, with cushioned chairs, and guests were scattered here and there with books, and needlework, and chess boards. Holmes had disappeared towards the trees. Once I was sure he would not turn around, I set a pace behind.

The canopy was cool, the branches overhead the shield, and the scent of earth and leaves was rich and dense. I trod on silently, affecting a deep interest in the habitat around me. The house was part concealed now, just the greens and browns and golds of Mother Nature.

A small clearing up ahead, and Holmes was standing at the edge of it, his back against a tree. His wave of jet black hair had been disgruntled by the breeze, to lend him something of a rakish air. His features, in repose: exquisite elegance and poise. I could not tear my eyes away from him.

But then – a darting movement from the other side; a figure gliding rapidly towards him. It was Miss Cooper, dressed in purple, with a bustle that might have harboured a small child had she so wished it. She came to rest in front of Holmes; they exchanged words. I heard her laugh: a shrill cacophony, much as a laying hen might make, or worse. I watched them stroll away, her arm in his. I felt a pang of jealousy so sharp and bitter that it pooled upon my tongue. I stood there, numb, behind my tree, and remained so for minutes more until I spurred myself to move, retrace my steps onto the lawn. 

Merrill Adams and the dapper Mr. Dooley had just seated at a table. Adams waved as I passed by. I went and sat with them.

“Watson, what are you up to?” said my friend. “I saw you skulking by the trees. Are you collecting twigs, or what, now?”

“Shh,” I said, “I wasn't skulking. I've just met Sherlock Holmes. I, er, um...” I shot a glance at Joel Dooley, who smiled benevolently back.

“Oh, well, I _see_ ,” Adams replied. He gave a chuckle. “That's _you_ sorted for the weekend, then.”

I tutted in annoyance and embarrassment. 

“Watson,” Adams continued, “do you mind if Mr. Dooley here swaps places at the dinner table later on tonight? His place was next to you, you see, but there's an empty spot by me, and, well, we thought...?”

“Please, go ahead,” I said.

“You're very kind,” said Mr. Dooley. “I say, now Watson, you're not in publishing, by any chance?”

We conversed pleasantly for just a little while. At some point, pots of tea and plates of sandwiches were brought into the garden and presented on a trestle. I circulated with the other guests. I noted darkly that Miss Cooper still had not returned. At length, I made excuses and retired up to the Green Room, where I hoped to read awhile in peace before the dinner gong.

Sherlock Holmes was there, re-sprawled across his bed. He raised his head as I came in. I remained silent; crossed the room to my own space, and picked my novel from the table, sat myself amongst my pillows and commenced to read. The corner of my eye saw some activity. Holmes was watching me covertly, twisting slowly round to gain a better angle for the purpose. I ignored him, all the same.

“That book is dreadful,” he said suddenly. “Do you want to know the ending?”

“Absolutely not!” I said. I dropped the book and turned to stare at him. “Do you do that very often?”

“Do I do what?”

“Spoil books for people?”

And he smirked. “Quite often, yes. It saves them time. Especially if the book is _dreadful_.” 

“Then _you_ are dreadful,” I said, smiling all the same. (I could not help it.)

He regarded me a while.

“It is bad sport to follow men into the woods,” said he at last.

I started; shoulders tight in dread. “I did not know that you were there,” I said.

“Hogwash,” said he.

A silence in the room.

“I did not mind it,” he said then.

“But, what?” My tongue was tied, besides. “I was just walking,” I said lamely. “And then I saw you with Miss Cooper.”

“Yes, you did,” said he. I heard him move and rustle on the bed. “That is my business, though, and little of your own.”

I flushed with shame. “That's true enough,” I said. My heart was very heavy now.

He rose, and towered above me – or so it seemed, for I confess I had my eyes strictly averted – then he gathered up his jacket, and progressed towards the door.

“I must see Mycroft, for a minute,” he said softly. “For if I don't, then he will hoot, and heaven knows, I don't need that. I will see you later, Watson.”

And he was gone – again! – and I was left; a tumbled book, a beating heart, and everything between.


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Mycroft, for a minute_ ,” became two hours at the least. The afternoon drew to a close; I washed, and changed my clothes for dinner. I was fiddling with cufflinks when Sherlock Holmes entered the room.

“Watson, I'm ravenous,” said he. “It must be all this country air. I always knew there was a reason why I loathed it.”

“Because it gives you a large appetite?”

“Well, yes.”

My earlier faux pas now quite forgotten – so it seemed – I watched him with amusement as he rummaged in his drawer for a clean shirt. 

“There is some wardrobe space,” I said, “if you would like it.”

He eyed me warily. “All right.” He transferred clothes – the few he had – to the spare hangers. I turned away towards the window while he changed his shirt and collar.

“How was Mycroft?” I enquired.

“Oh, same as usual. Interrogatory. Annoying.” Holmes combed his hair. “Age does not mellow him.” He looked at me. “Well, shall we? Are you ready?”

We ventured downstairs to the drawing room, where cocktails had been served. We found ourselves in conversation with Uncle Rufus, who was a scatterbrain, but affable and curious. He had learned I was a doctor, and so regaled me with a litany of medical complaints. A hypochondriac, to boot! We spoke a while with Newton Cooper, whose mood was greatly changed from lunch. He had argued with Miss Alice; this had apparently unsettled him. Mycroft arrived; the group so gravitated then towards his orbit. Holmes and I drew to the side, onto a sofa by the window.

“No more,” said he. “I've had enough of my dear brother for the day. Tomorrow will be ten times worse.”

“What is tomorrow?” 

“It's the _egg hunt_. I've a mind to stay in bed.”

“It might be fun?”

He looked at me severely. “Or it might _not_.”

We talked between us, then, of London, of our work and our acquaintances. I found Holmes solid company, inquisitive and humorous. He dissected all the guests within the room, to my delight. Perhaps I learned more than I should have done; at least I would not tell. I asked him something of his own life; he was taciturn and vague. He had grown up here, in this house, 'til university, which was a lonely time for him, so far away from home, and yet – “It was the making of me, Watson,” he declared. “It taught me many things eventually, not least of which that, yes, in fact, I _could_ flourish on my own.”

“You had your doubts?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Families are complicated animals,” said he. And then he spoke no more about it, so diverting us instead to music, violins, and orchestras.

The dinner was delicious, and the wine was even more so. Holmes sat beside me, and we carried on our talk, and became merry, from the Bordeaux to the Sauternes, to the Port, from there to brandy, until at last the evening ended, and we hauled ourselves to bed. And as the hubbub all around us slowly faded, and the footsteps in the hallway ceased to pad, we found ourselves strangely reluctant to retire.

I had loosened my bow tie, removed my boots and jacket both, and was now lying on my bed across its width, as Holmes sat on the edge of his.

“It's still too early,” he said, yawning. “I don't want to go to sleep.”

“I have a pack of playing cards,” I said.

He came to join me, stretched himself upon the mattress. “You will lose,” said he.

“That's rich,” I said. “We haven't even chosen what to play.”

He smiled, and looked at me from eyelids partway closed. I felt a pang; an urge, a yearning, in my chest.

“My head is swimming,” he said, sweetly. “From too much wine, and all the rest of it. But I will tell you here and now, that I will win whatever hand you choose to play.”

“You have an attitude,” I said. I stretched beside him, so now mirroring our pose from hours earlier. 

He blinked at me. “I thought that much was obvious.”

“What _else_ is obvious?” There was a tension in the room, and I was batting it around, from hand to hand, chancing my luck, testing my nerve.

“Oh, you tell _me_.” Holmes propped his head upon his hand. His eyes were fixed upon my own.

“That perhaps we might do better than play cards.”

I heard his sharp intake of breath.

“The brandy's talking,” he said quietly.

“No doubt. But do you care?”

There was a silence while his finger traced the pattern on the coverlet. “Was this your intention all along?” he asked. “The reason why you offered me your room?”

“Not wholly, but in part. Are you offended?”

“No.”

I leaned across towards him, but he squirmed away, held out a hand in protest. “No?” I said, withdrawing, awkward. “I have misjudged,” I said, abashed. “I am so sorry, Holmes, forgive me. Of course, you're courting young Miss Alice, and I--”

“I'm _what?_ ” His tone was strident, aggravated. “Watson, you're madder than a hare. I am doing no such thing.” He wagged a finger in my face. “That is what happens when you _spy_. You make assumptions which are _wrong_.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Do stop saying that. It's tiresome.” He sighed. “I've known Miss Alice since my childhood. She was seeking my advice on some small matter, that is all.” Holmes lit a cigarette, and offered me the case. “So, then, you want to prig.” Tilting his head, he blew a coiling wreath of smoke. He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes?” I said.

“You don't sound very sure!”

We burst out laughing then at our absurdity.

“I want to, very much,” I said. I felt some hopeful stirring of arousal.

“A shame for you, then,” he replied. “I rarely do, and _when_ I do, it's not like this.”

“I understand.”

“You don't at all.” He yawned again. “Do you even _have_ a deck of cards?”

I produced them from my bag. We settled into a small truce, and played Gin Rummy as we were, upon the bed, quite oddly intimate. We spoke little, but it was an easy silence, and I was grateful, given what had passed before. I speculated as to what Holmes might have meant: _“You don't at all.”_ Did he consider me obtuse? A boor, insensitive to mood? I am those things occasionally, but should like to give myself an ounce of credit that for the most part, I am inclined to the romantic. What a mess I'd made of this!

My concentration lax, I lost the hand, and all those after it.

“We should have played for money,” Holmes remarked. “I'd be a rich man by this point.”

We dressed for bed, and doused the lamps. We lay there quietly, apart, until at length I heard his breathing deepen, falling into slumber, and I joined it at some interval, the moonlight infiltrating the calm heartbeat of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, I was sober once again and feeling mortified. Holmes was up and at the wash stand with his razor, shaving busily. He caught my eye in the reflection of the mirror, and – for heaven's sake – he winked at me. “It's all right, Watson, don't be wretched. It's the _egg hunt_ , don't forget.”

“I have a headache,” I said, holding it. “Holmes, I must apologise again...”

“You must do nothing of the sort,” said he. He rinsed his face and dried it with the towel. “I'd recommend that you go easy on the brandy, though, in future.”

I couldn't help but laugh. “Oh, ow, my head.”

Somehow we made it down to breakfast. I was pleased to see that Adams and young Dooley were still looking very tight. Newton Cooper and Miss Alice, on the other hand, were prickly and obstinate. I wondered what the matter was, and if it had some bearing on the meeting in the woods just yesterday. The weather outside was still glorious: the sun was shining through, the windows open, a light breeze puffing the curtains, and the scent of fresh-cut grass was quite divine. I swallowed down some toast and coffee, and by gradual degrees I felt myself regain some semblance of humanity.

Adams found me by the egg dish. “Morning, Watson,” he said cheerfully. “How goes it, on your end?”

“I had an awful head. I'm feeling better now,” I said. I turned to him to whisper: “Dooley seems quite taken with you, I must say.”

Adams beamed and clapped my shoulder. “He's a delight, Watson, I tell you. I've never met a man like him. I can't quite put my finger on it. He's everything a chap should be, you know?”

“Good luck,” I said.

“The same to you,” said he. He wandered off. I noticed Cooper scowling at us from afar, and puzzled as to why he was so sour of a sudden. Avoiding his trajectory, I wound my way to Holmes, who'd eaten little but was on his third or fourth cup of hot coffee. He beckoned me to sit.

“This stupid game is set in pairs,” he said. “Mycroft has just told me. Watson, will you be my partner?”

He did not look at me while saying this. Rather, he agitated at the coffee pot, and rattled with his spoon.

“Of course I will,” I said, delighted. “What are the rules? When does it start?”

“At ten o'clock. I'm under oath to take some part in it, so Watson, we must _win_. You know my methods.”

“I begin to,” I replied.

“Well, there are eggs – the painted, papier-mâché sort – hidden across the house. We have to find them. And the team with the most eggs by twelve o'clock wins a small prize.” Holmes rolled his eyes. “Some piece of tat, no doubt, but _still_.”

“We have to win,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“I'd understand a little better, if it were Easter,” I said slowly.

“Oh, well, that's Mycroft and his madness,” said my friend. “At least _tomorrow_ will be civilised. Today, we have to caper like our heads have been cut off.”

“I'll need more coffee, then, I think.”

And ten o'clock came, and we cut off into pairs, and Mycroft went over the rules, and we were handed a small basket, and then the game began. An egg hunt. On a Saturday. In June.


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes pulled my arm in the direction of the dining room. The other pairs were drifting off towards the drawing room and gardens. We came up trumps, with three small eggs for our straw basket, hidden cleverly in lampshade, drawer, and soup tureen.

“Everybody's on the lawn,” I said. 

“Well, more fool them,” said Holmes. “If they want to lose, then we won't stop them.”

The library had a yield of four. By now, the teams had drifted back inside to spread around the lower floor. I suggested to my friend that we might venture up the stairs. “Perhaps the attic,” I said, hopefully.

“Watson, you're ingenious,” said he, “we'll have a haul there, mark my words.”

The stairs were steep; they creaked and groaned as we stepped up them, and the attic door was stiff upon its latch. Holmes pushed it open, and we entered. Pale yellow light was seeping through from a high window, highlighting cobwebs, thick with dust, so long abandoned. In every corner there were boxes filled with books and tarnished silverware. Broken basket chairs, and table lamps, and plaster busts of who-knows-who from god-knows-when. It was so quiet here! The bustle of the house seemed very far away. I watched Holmes as he moved from box to box, picking up first one thing then another.

“I remember this,” he said, struck by nostalgia, his hand emerging from the tumble with a wooden child's sword.

“There should be two?” I said.

He laughed. “No, just the one. Did you think _Mycroft_ would play swords with me?”

“Are all your old toys in these boxes?” I enquired, quite fascinated.

“I don't think so.” He didn't sound entirely sure. “I thought they'd all been thrown away.”

“Your parents didn't keep them to be handed down?” I asked.

Holmes threw a look at me. “Well, not to _my_ side, certainly.”

I joined him at his box. “They knew?”

He shook his head. 

At the bottom of the box, a beaten, bruised and de-stuffed teddy bear. I hauled it out and showed it to my friend. “Was this one yours?”

He nodded slightly, took it from me, turned it over in his hands. I sensed a sadness in him, suddenly. My hand reached out to touch him, offer empathy; it rested on his shoulder, where the muscles curled and tensed, tried in themselves to throw me off.

“You didn't have a happy childhood,” I said, aware at last.

Holmes made a noise, at once dismissive, non-committal. He withdrew, wrenching his shoulder free. He tossed the bear, and stepped towards the door. I held him back.

“Please let me in,” I said, with every shred of feeling in my words I could afford.

“The hunt...”

“To hell with that.”

He turned upon me then, and backed me up against the wall. His hands were in my hair, upon my nape; one leg thrust inbetween my own. I gasped, the breath shocked out of me; my hands upon him too, then, at his chest, pushing his waistcoat up askew, pulling his shirt out of his trouser band. We wrestled, almost violent, for a moment, faces far apart, but eyes, upon each other, burning holes, and--

\--and it was over, just like that. Holmes drew himself away, retracted. The straw basket had been jettisoned, the eggs spilling and rolling, and he picked them up, replaced them. 

“What was _that?_ ”

He looked at me, his chest still heaving. “I don't know.” He tucked and smoothed his shirt. “Forgive me.”

“ _Holmes_ ,” I said, but he had scattered for the stairs, was heading down them even as I spoke his name. I followed, dazed, and caught him at our bedroom door.

“What are you doing?”

“I don't know,” he said again. He fled inside.

I joined him on the window seat. “I _understand_ ,” I said. “Or, if I don't, then _help_ me to, please, Holmes.”

“I'm _not_ talking of my childhood,” he said, his mouth set stubbornly. “I never have, and never will.”

“All right,” I said. I waited, patiently.

He exhaled noisily. 

“You were perceptive, and it made me feel...” Holmes tapered off. “I had an impulse, and... I don't do well with those.” He looked out of the window, nibbled crossly at a fingernail. “I need to feel _connected_. I can't just...”

“Oh!” I said. “I see. No – Holmes --” (for he was frowning at me now) “-- I really _do_.” I hesitated. “Do you think you... might? With me? Feel connected at some point, I mean to say?”

He blinked, and scratched his head. “I don't like questions of this nature,” he said quietly. Then, seeing my expression, he leaned forward, touched my hand. “Just be sincere,” he said. “And if it's meant to be, then it will be.”

We were silent for some moments.

“Holmes, the egg hunt,” I said nervously. “Are we still doing it, or...?”

“Oh, _drat_ it all,” my friend exclaimed, catapulting off the seat, “I had forgotten all about it. Where's the basket? Oh Watson, really, we are doomed, I tell you, _doomed_.”

We found two eggs inside the music room, and one tucked inside a billiard table pocket. There was one egg, crushed and forlorn, under the hatstand. 

“That makes eleven,” Holmes said, panting. “Do you think that's good enough?”

We conveyed our bounty to the hall, where Mycroft Holmes was playing judge. He looked upon us with a half-smile. “Sherlock and Watson,” he said, counting from our basket, “oh, you've done very well indeed.”

“But have we _won?_ ” Holmes said.

“Perhaps.”

It turned out, in fact, we had. Our nearest rivals had been Uncle Rufus and Aunt Rufina, who carried nine.

“Here is your prize,” said Mycroft Holmes. “And please don't drink it all at once.”

It was a bottle of the finest Rémy Martin. Holmes looked at me; I looked at him. We burst out laughing, much to Mycroft's great surprise.

Back in our room, washing for lunch, we heard the servants on the back lawn marking out the bowling green. The afternoon would be spent thus: a choice of bowling at the rear, or garden croquet at the front. I had played neither in my life before. I looked to Holmes for guidance. 

“Really, neither,” he replied, “unless you want to lose your mind. Or do you _want_ to play?” 

“I'd like to try,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. 

“ _You_ needn't play. You can do whatever you'd like.”

“I'd like to... be with you,” he said. “So I suppose I'd better grit my teeth and play.”

I wanted terribly to kiss him then. I wondered if he'd mind, and I imagined that he would.

A tap upon our door. It was Miss Alice, asking for a private word. They disappeared onto the landing, and I finished up my wash, and changed my shoes. I met Holmes downstairs in the dining room.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

“Miss Alice has a problem with her brother,” said my friend. “Tell me, Watson, what do you think of Joel Dooley?”

“He seems a solid fellow,” I replied. “Is _he_ what this is all about?”

Holmes did not answer me directly, for we were joined then by the others, and lunch commenced.

That afternoon, I proved quite dreadful at lawn bowling, and mediocre at croquet. My friend, for all his hooting, fared rather better, winning several games of each. It was so pleasant, playing outdoors in good company. I rather felt this weekend was a joy all by itself, with Holmes the 'cherry on the top'. (I did not tell him this.)

Much later, we were once again at rest within our room. I had a sun burn on my nose. I dabbed some lotion on the spot while Holmes made fun of me.

“It's sore. I hate you,” I informed him.

“Oh, let's play cards,” said he. “Stop whining. I might let you win this time.”

We converged upon my bed as per the last time and, as one, we flung ourselves full width across it. There was an awful crack; a splintering. The bed lurched to one side, rolling us sideways.

“Good god, now, Watson,” said my friend, “we've done it in.” He started giggling.

We scrambled up, surveyed the damage. The bed's far leg had sheared away from its main fixing, and it was quite beyond repair.

“What do we _do?_ ” I said, in panic. “It is unusable!”

We stared, then, at each other.

“You will have to share with me,” said Holmes. “My bed is large enough.”

We stared again.

“But are you sure?”

“To have you sleeping on the floorboards would be inhumane,” said he, “and there's no other place to go.” He looked unsure, despite his bravado.

“All right, then,” I said doubtfully. (The bed was not _quite_ large enough.) I fretted for a moment, while my stomach curled with glee. “That's very kind of you.”

We fashioned a small space to play our card game, and set to, making no comment on the carnage near the window. 

I still lost.

“What _are_ you good at, if it isn't cards, or bowling, or croquet?” my friend enquired.

“You should be so lucky to find out,” I said. I watched him flush and fumble, drop his cards, and clear his throat; and I considered that the greatest win of all.

But oh, my goodness, how to make it through tonight, without combusting?


	5. Chapter 5

I took a bath that evening, wincing as the soapy water touched my sun burn. I made a mental note to buy a summer hat the very instant I returned back home to London (and the thought of 'home' did not appeal at all). My only comfort was that Holmes lived relatively close, on Baker Street. I wondered would he even want to see me, after this? Would he have second thoughts, a wiser call to judgement, deem me too much of a risk, and too much trouble to be bothered with? All these thoughts and more I agonised with, while I flannelled down my scarlet skin and towelled myself dry.

Holmes had had much the same idea. We smelled of soap and lotion both, the pair of us. We dressed for dinner quietly. He hovered by my side and sniffed behind my ear. “I like the way you smell,” he murmured softly.

And if _that_ didn't send the blood straight to my rod, I had no small idea _what_ would.

“Holmes,” I began, but he had skittered to the dresser and was picking out a tie. Ignoring me! Oh, two could play at that game.

The atmosphere around the dining table was quite curious. Newton Cooper shot frequent glances at Joel Dooley, who was oblivious, so wrapped up in his chat with Merrill Adams, who in his turn was gazing puzzled at Miss Alice, who was frowning at her brother, and – oh, good gracious, now Eva Worthington had left her chair to whisper to Miss Alice, who was nodding, and....

“Holmes,” I said, under my breath, “I hope you're taking notes.”

I heard him snort.

In the sitting-room, we watched a game of Bridge play to its end. (Mycroft was marvellously talented at cards, I had discovered.) We drank some brandy, just a little. I think we both were rather putting off what was to come, but in the end, Holmes yawned, peered at his watch. “And that's me done,” said he. He bid us all good night. It broke the dam; most of the guests now trickled off to their own rooms, and I was not among the last of them. A scant five minutes later, I had joined Holmes in our room, where he was sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette.

“And here we are,” I said.

“Yes, here we are.”

A pause. I removed my jacket and my shoes, and sat beside him. “Are you tired?”

“Perhaps, a little.”

“Do you want to...?”

“If you like.”

We donned our nightshirts, lowered the lamps, climbed into bed. There was not so much room to move around. We lay quite stiffly, straight and awkward, staring upwards at the ceiling. 

“Your bed is lumpy,” I remarked.

“No, you're the lump.”

We turned onto our sides, facing each other. Holmes's eyes were warm and gentle, scrutinising. I closed my own, and breathed him in. The scent of soap, still, and cologne. I filled my lungs with him; imagined he was in my arms and wanting. I felt a touch upon my cheek; opened my eyes to find his hand there, softly stroking with his thumb. My own laid anchor on his hip; I felt the jut of bone, the leanness through the cloth. We inched together, 'til our noses were just touching.

“Will you hold me?” he asked quietly.

We arranged ourselves just so, not quite entwined, but close enough. My lips could graze his neck if they so chose. I chose. He inhaled. “ _Oh._ ”

I wanted him so badly I could feel it in my viscera.

My lips trailed slowly up his neck, across his throat, under his chin, under his bottom lip. His eyes were tightly shut, his breath erratic, and his fingers curled around my upper arms as if to sever circulation.

And I withdrew. I laid my head upon his shoulder, and we shuddered in a unison that startled us, I think.

We lay like that until we fell asleep. When I awoke again, the lamp was still aglow, the night was full; that hour before the dawn when time seems endless, faintly magical. Holmes had curled against my chest, was sleeping peacefully. The room was warm, too much so, and the bed covers were stifling. I eased them down, a little, to our waists. I caught my breath, for Holmes's nightshirt had rucked up, revealing inches of bare thigh, perilously close to what I dreamed of most of all... I turned my head away _(for god's sake, John)_ and tried to think of anything but that. I heard him snuffle, stir just slightly _(don't wake up, please don't wake up... I don't think that I can do this anymore)._

I slept again. The sun was rising when I blinked awake. My friend was sitting propped against the headboard, and his hand was in my hair. “Good morning, Watson,” he said softly.

I grunted something incoherent, and he chuckled. “It's only five o'clock, it's early yet.”

My mouth was parched. I poured a glass of water from the carafe beside the bed, and sipped it slowly. Holmes was watching me the while. “Did you sleep well?”

“Quite well,” I said. I lay back down. He joined me; raised himself upon one elbow.

“I had dreams,” he said, and something in his tone made me look up at him. 

“What did you dream?”

“I dreamed of you.”

“Losing at cards?”

He laughed. “Not quite. We were in bed, and I was kissing you.”

A sound escaped my throat. “And did you like it?”

“Very much.” He hesitated. “Kiss me, John.”

I leaned across to him, and placed my lips to his. I kissed his mouth, which opened slightly to accept me, and then my hands had cupped his face, and his were at my back, and god knows, we'd forgotten how to breathe, we were just _kissing_ as if our lives depended solely on that fact, and if we separated even for a _second_ , we would perish... 

We had to breathe, regrettably, at some point.

We set back – the smallest fraction – to regard our hot, flushed faces, and we smiled as if it were the most amusing thing, to be this much affected by a kiss.

“It just feels right with you,” he said.

“I want you desperately.”

His hand swept down my back to clasp my backside, and I jolted, moaned, and shivered. “Give me time,” he whispered, ragged. “Can you wait?”

“Not with your hand upon my arse like this,” I said.

He lifted off. I half regretted it.

“I haven't been with anyone in years,” he said. “I never felt the need.”

“You were content?”

He nodded. “Well enough. I'm anxious, now, about this. I don't want to disappoint you.”

“You could _never_ disappoint me.”

“I don't need platitudes,” said he. “How many fellows have you been with?”

“I've no idea. Two dozen. More.”

“My god. I'm sleeping with a dollymop.”

“I'm recently reformed,” I said. I yanked him closer and we kissed a second time. It was as heady as the first. 

“I must get dressed,” said Holmes. “I can't lay here like this with you.” He sprang up from the bed, and rooted briefly in the wardrobe. He disappeared behind the screen. I heard him rustling and buttoning, and I mourned the loss of intimacy. What a silly thing! And not a loss at all, of course, but even so. I'd rather we had stayed in bed together for an hour or two longer, talking nonsense, fond regard, or wrapped up in each other's arms.

When Holmes emerged, I took his place and dressed in Sunday best. Today, of course, the last full day, with a concert and a banquet (I'd been told), and I looked forward to these things with some excitement. We trailed downstairs to the kitchen – which was already in full swing – and so procured a pot of tea. We sat outside upon the lawn, and watched the morning unfurl, slowly, saw the flowers shake their heads and waken, ready for the day; the birdsong overhead, around us, joyous greeting, sleepy twitters. I felt so utterly at peace here, with my friend close by my side, that a rare happiness caught hold of me, absorbed itself so subtly, to manifest as a light feeling – gossamer – inside my heart.

“I want to show you something interesting today,” my friend said suddenly. “You'll like it, I've no doubt.”

“I'm sure I will. Whatever is it?” 

He smiled, a secretive expression on his face. “It's a surprise.”

“Oh, one of those!” I tweaked his arm. “I'm game.”

We wended inside at a later point, with breakfast being served for early risers, and we found ourselves the first. Fried mushrooms, eggs on toast, I took my heaping plate to sit beside my friend. “Will you not eat?” I said.

“Later, perhaps. Where _do_ you put it all?”

“I have hollow legs,” I said. “Just watch. I'll be going back for seconds.”

“You appal me.”

We drank coffee, milky sweet, then left the dining room to smoke a pipe or two outside again. Mycroft was heading down the staircase as we did so. He regarded us with something fair akin to broad amusement – but then his face snapped straight again, and he was greeting us good morning. He disappeared into the dining room for breakfast.

Holmes watched him go. “Mycroft looks smug. Smugger than usual, I should say. He must be planning something heinous.”

“It _is_ his birthday,” I said, smiling. “I suppose he has the right.”

And then the house began to stir itself, and doors began to bang, and feet in multitude descended from the upper floor. Sunday, in its finery, began to whirr and spin.


	6. Chapter 6

I did go back for seconds. I coaxed my friend to take some toast, and he obliged me with reluctance. Tiring of the chore of eating breakfast, he dragged me by the arm and out into the hall and to the study, where he shut the door and smiled at me.

“It's time for your surprise,” he said. “Prepare to be impressed.”

I looked around. “You're going to crack the safe?”

He tutted. “No.” He waved a hand towards one wall with built-in bookshelves. “What do you see?”

“I see some books,” I said.

“Not only books,” said Holmes. He walked towards them, tucked his hand behind a panel. I heard a click. A hidden door revealed itself. Holmes pulled it open.

“It's a passage!” I said, thrilled. I clapped my hands. My friend looked pleased. “Where does it lead?”

“I'm going to show you,” he replied.

I followed Holmes into the passage. It was narrow, dark, and smelled of damp neglect. It carried on for some small way in a straight fashion, then curved around and on again to a dead end. Holmes pushed a lever, and a further door appeared. He disappeared through this. I craned my neck and hovered, undecided, on the threshold, peering in. It was a small room, sparsely furnished with a sofa, chair, and desk. There were some books piled on the floor, a tattered rug, a stack of unused cups and plates. Set high upon one wall was a small window, dirty, curtainless, through which an errant sunbeam struggled through. The room was thick with dust; it agitated in the air with Holmes's movements, as he turned around towards me.

“What's this?” I asked. “A secret room?”

“I used to come here as a child,” said he, “to hide. Mycroft's forgotten all about it, I shouldn't wonder.” He swiped a finger through some dust. “I liked this room. It was so quiet. I could sit in here and think.”

“What did you think about?”

“What I would do when I grew up and could _escape_.” He stared then, suddenly, at a mid-point in my vicinity. “John, your jacket's _filthy_ , did you put it on that way?”

I registered my sleeves in some dismay. Evidently, I had brushed them on the passage wall, as streaks of dust and grime were now presenting clear as day. “Oh blast,” I said. I took my handkerchief, and dabbed, but ineffectually.

“It doesn't matter,” said my friend.

“What do you _mean_ , it doesn't matter? It matters very mu--”

He'd caught me by the waist. He held me tight. “We'll sponge it down. It's only dirt.” He kissed me firmly on the mouth. “ _This_ is why I brought you here. For privacy.” His hands roved down to clamp my backside once again. I groaned. He squeezed. I yelped.

“You're living dangerously,” I whispered.

“Don't I know it!”

I pushed him backwards to the sofa and, dust or no, I laid him down, and then I lowered myself slowly to the length of him. I ground, experimentally. He whined. I ground a little more. He muttered an expletive.

I touched him; cupped him through the flannel. “As hard as Hades,” I said softly.

Holmes, by this point, was as fluid as an annelid – though far more handsome of a specimen – and he bucked and curled beneath me, panting, making me see stars...

“You want it _here?_ ” I asked, befuddled, still unbuttoning my trousers as I spoke...

“Oh god, John, wait,” he hissed. “Oh, god...”

I drew back slightly. I allowed him time to breathe. “You're sending out conflicting messages,” I said.

“I know.” He struggled to the upright, and we settled side by side. We were both painfully aware of sporting stalks, and we did our best to hide them. “I didn't think we'd go this far.”

“You put your hands upon my arse again!” I said.

We burst out laughing, and it cleared some of the tension in the air.

“Tonight,” said Holmes. “I promise you, tonight.”

“What do you promise?”

“You can prig me how you like.”

That didn't help my bumptious stalk, which now jerked upright once again.

“I'll be a wretched mess 'til then,” I said. “I _need_ to be inside you.”

My friend let out a strangled gasp; he leaned his elbows on his knees, and thrust his head into his hands. “And I need to feel it,” he admitted, through his fingers, from his heart. “Because I love you.”

Good lord, _my_ heart!

I leaned to capture him, to cup his chin, to kiss his luscious mouth. “I love you as I've never loved before.” A cliché? Never mind. I held him to me, and he nestled close. We watched the specks of dust float in the air for senseless minutes, endless time. We left the secret room on tip-toe, closed the doors, fastened the catches, to the study, and the hall again. Wouldn't you know it, Mycroft Holmes was there, just exiting the library. 

“Sherlock, your back is _dusty?_ Dr. Watson, you have dirt upon your sleeves? Do I _really_ want to know where you have been?”

“I doubt it, Mycroft,” said my friend. He hauled me upwards to the Green Room, where we set to with a bowl of soapy water and a sponge. When we had made ourselves presentable once more, we traipsed back downstairs to the drawing room, where Adams was now sitting by the window, deep in thought. We made him jump, a little, at our entrance, but he greeted us quite cheerfully.

“Ho there, Watson, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “Well, what a Sunday this is, eh?”

He seemed a little left of sideways all the same.

“What is the matter, my dear fellow?” I enquired. “Are you in a fix?”

“Nothing really of the sort,” he said, “but upon my word, you know, my world's been jiggled upside down.”

“Tell us about it, then,” I said. “Unless it's private?”

“It's Mr. Dooley,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I know the truth, Adams, don't worry.”

Adams gaped. “How do you know? But did he _tell_ you? What on earth?”

I was so puzzled by this point that I looked to my friend for help.

“I observed, and I deduced,” said Holmes. “Miss Alice was in turmoil with her brother, and so I kept a weather eye out, so to speak.” 

“Oh yes, old Newton,” Adams said. “He had this grand idea to marry Alice off to poor old Dooley. Little did poor Newton know – ha ha! He hadn't got the foggiest! Kept pushing them together. Alice, of course, kicked up her heels, and was very cross about the thing, but Newton couldn't get it through that thick bone-box of his.” He eyed us carefully. “Now I know you're decent sorts, the pair of you. I know you won't cause any trouble over this.”

“What trouble is there?” I asked, baffled. “Mr. Dooley only has to make it clear that he's not interested?”

“And he has done so,” replied Adams. “That's not the issue any longer. In the midst of that, he told me something of himself, and _that_ is why I'm sitting here, amazed, amused, what have you.” Adams lit a cigarette, and sucked it, chuckling away. “I fell in love, you know, and told him. He replied in the same vein, and then confessed to his great secret.”

“Mr. Joel was once Miss Josephine,” said Holmes.

“He told you that much, eh? It's true. For yes, he's living as a man now, and has done for many years.” Adams looked at me. “Not shocked, eh, Watson? Ah, old chum, I didn't think you would be.”

“Not at all,” I said. “It's not as rare a choice as one might think. He makes a handsome fellow, certainly! But Adams, can you deal with it? You've never once before... you know...”

My old friend shrugged. “We'll work it out,” he said. “We fell in love. That's all there is to say.” He looked at us, then, curiously. “Are you a pair as well? For if you're not, I'll eat my hat.”

I glanced at Holmes. “Indeed we are,” I said, a smile upon my face that drew a like one from my pal.

“I am so glad,” said Adams, reaching out a hand to shake our own. “Well, what a weekend!” And he chuckled once again.

We stayed, and talked awhile of other things: our busy London lives; the summer concert schedule. We made plans to meet up later in July, to attend the programme at St. James's Hall. I felt a thrill that Holmes and I were talking as a couple now – the royal 'We'! I challenged him to Billiards, then. He groaned, but acquiesced, and we stepped out into the hall.

“I suppose you are a crack shot,” I remarked, once we were at the Billiard table and were chalking up our cues.

“I rarely play,” said he. He winked.

“Oh god,” I said.

I lost.

“The baize is old. The table is uneven,” I said, sulking.

“Hmm hmm.”

“You _can't_ be good at everything,” I said. “It isn't fair.”

“I'm very bad at jacks.”

“I don't believe that for a minute.”

The string quartet began at two. The music room was crammed, so many guests and servants, both, invited. We took places at the front, on wooden chairs that creaked and wobbled, and we listened to the tuning up, and then – the music started! – Oh, the music – we heard Haydn, Schubert, Mendelssohn... and solo pieces, and duets; it was a blissful way to spend an afternoon. My friend was in a perfect happiness; I watched him, too, his fingers waving gently to the music, his eyelids fluttering in harmony to trills and turns and slides...

At four o'clock the concert ended, and we staggered out, punch-drunk on string vibration.

“I will play for you one day,” said Holmes.

“You play? The cello?”

“No, the violin.”

“I would so love to hear you.”

“So you shall.”

Inside our room, we sat apart and read, and smoked. From time to time we read out passages that moved us, or impressed us, and we found an easy stillness in the inbetween. The measure of good friendship is the value of the silence, after all. We made no mention of the evening, or the coming night, but pondered it internally and privately. And by and by, we set our books aside and dressed for dinner, knowing that before too long we would be bound – with all that that entailed.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a banquet, yes, most certainly. Ten courses, that began with soup, at some point roast asparagus, later still a fragrant bouillabaisse, so ending with a fruit sorbet. Holmes ate quite lightly, I observed; I did the same, for nerves in part, and a dislike of overeating in the main before... exertion. Surreptitiously, I slid my hand beneath the tablecloth, to place it on my friend's right thigh. I let it rest there, as a promise of my own. He flushed and fidgeted, and stumbled over words, to my amusement. The evening was convivial; our group had had a fine weekend by all accounts. Mycroft voiced the hope that it was not the last that we should spend together.

After dinner, in the sitting-room, we sipped at brandy, smoked cigars, and played at dominoes in pairs. I exchanged looks with Holmes. We smouldered at each other for the longest while, until at last the straw was too much for the camel's back, and we rose up as one. How it must have looked, I do not know, but we both made our poor excuses to the company, and so retired to bed, with overstated yawning.

We sped up the stairs, half giggling like children, and we slammed into our room. I locked the door.

“I'm going to _have_ you,” I said warningly.

“You'd better,” he said, ripping off his jacket and his tie.

I stood behind him, placed my hands upon his shoulders, felt the fragile jut of collarbone beneath the woven cotton of his shirt. “I'm going to make you come,” I whispered in his ear. He dropped his head and moaned.

“Not just the once, I hope,” said he. “Oh god, John, please...”

I moved away. I undressed quickly, threw my clothes into a pile upon the floor. When I was naked, I stood by the bed, and looked at Holmes. And he, upon the other side – now naked too, and perfect, every inch of him – looked back at me.

We stripped the bed of all its coverings, to leave just one thin base sheet and the pillows.

We lay upon the bed and kissed. Our tongues collided, fought like fury, came to some fractious agreement.

“We need lubricant,” I said, the thought now only just occurring. I leapt off the bed and rummaged on the wash stand. Finding something that would serve quite well, I ferried it to Holmes. He eyed it with some apprehension.

“Will it do?”

“We'll _make_ it do,” I said. I placed it on the stand. I curled beside him. “You have done all this before?”

He nodded. “Yes.” He pushed me gently on my back and sat astride me. I looked up at him; his beauty held my breath. I told him so. He flushed and turned his head away.

“It's true,” I said. I reached to touch him, to caress, to stroke the pale and blooming flesh. He squirmed and mewled, and so collapsed.

“How do you want me?” he asked, breathless, inches from my avid lips.

“Not so fast,” I said. Manoeuvring, we switched about. I pinned him to the bed. I kissed his mouth; I traced my tongue across his chest and abdomen. I licked and wetted the soft mound of pubic hair. I took his prick into my mouth and lapped it gently, teased and nudged it to attention. He was wailing, baying, making such a noise, that I held pause. “You have to _shush_ ,” I said. “You know that Aunt Rufina sleeps next door.”

“How can I shush,” said he, “with all the things you're _doing?_ ”

We contorted to a lotus flower. He, shy, upon my lap, legs wrapped around me, face tucked in upon my shoulder, as we palmed each other's cocks, and panted, cursed, and breathed endearments. I oiled my fingers, probed his small and puckered hole; he keened and writhed, pushed himself down upon my hand. I worked him gently, and the _sounds_ he made were glorious; so wanton of a sudden.

“Put it in me,” he said, growling.

And here we were, at last: the moment. I pressed inside him, slowly, achingly. He whimpered, breath in shocks, lowered a hand to take control. “Bear down,” I said. He did so; dragged his nails across my shoulders, clamped me the tighter with his legs. Oh, god, the feel of him; the heat, the sweat, the _scent_ of him... I kissed his skin, caressed the fullness of his arse and, with my fingers, touched the point where we were joined. We stilled, and clung on to each other. “Are you all right?”

“I feel so _full_ ,” he whined. He rocked, a little, cautiously. “Oh, _ah_.”

He rose, just slightly, fell back down. Cried out. Again, again, again... I bit his flesh; his nails scraped mine; we heaved and fucked, and thrust and _came_ , our bodies arching, tensing, taut, to our release...

He fell back, gasping, to the sheet. I lay there, dazed, whatever else? I looked across. We caught each other's eye, and grinned.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Well, no. Thank _you_.”

The politesse, after debauch.

“I'm in a wet patch,” he said, grumbling (not several minutes later). He wriggled closer, threw an arm across, and nuzzled up. I kissed him, on his crown, and he purred out, much as a cat. We held each other, tighter, 'til: _Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!_

It was a busy night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning: most unwelcome. We gazed bleary-eyed upon it, bade it go away; it stayed, alas, to thumb its nose and laugh. 

“It _can't_ be morning,” moaned my friend. “I've only slept for sixteen minutes.”

“I'm afraid it's eight o'clock,” I said. “And we have to wash and dress, and pack.”

“Well, carry on,” said he. “You'll find me here, asleep.”

I slapped his backside, and he jolted, muttering into his pillow.

By eight-thirty, I was ready, with my bags all packed to go. I sat with Holmes upon the bed, and watched him fiddle with his cuffs. He was sombre, and it worried me. “Is everything all right?”

“No, it is not,” he said. “What _are_ we going to do? I want to _be_ with you. I can't stand the thought of home, if you're not there.”

“I live nearby,” I said, upset too at the thought of that. “We'll see each other all the time, I promise.”

Holmes sighed loudly. “I don't want to sleep alone,” he said.

“Neither do I. We'll work it out.”

“Like Adams and young Dooley,” said my friend. He sniffed, and stood. “Oh well, come on, or we'll be late for eggs on toast.”

I heard his voice catch, and I drew him to embrace. I kissed his nose, and stroked his hair. “We'll be together,” I said firmly. “Now and always. Get your bag; we're going down.”

We piled our luggage in the hall, and trooped inside the dining room. Speaking of Dooley – there he was, one of the stragglers for breakfast, spooning out some kedgeree.

“Good morning, Dooley!” I said jovially. “So sad it's the last day, eh?”

“Yes indeed,” the fellow said. “I've had a lovely time. We all have, haven't we?”

“You nearly missed it, too,” I said. “I'm very glad you changed your mind.”

“Changed my mind?” His face was puzzled. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Well, you had cancelled,” I reminded him. “Mycroft was quite surprised when you arrived.”

“I didn't cancel,” Dooley said, shaking his head. “And Mycroft didn't mention anything to me.”

“How very strange,” I said. I turned to Holmes, whose face had pulled an odd expression. “What are you thinking of?” I asked.

“Mycroft doesn't make mistakes,” said Holmes. He turned and left the room before the two of us could question him.

I followed at a pace. Mycroft was standing on the gravel near the entrance, overseeing the departure of the Coopers. He smiled quietly on seeing us.

“Mycroft,” (Holmes was stern.) “Confess!”

The elder brother laughed aloud. “Oh, well done, Sherlock,” he said, doffing an imaginary hat. “I wondered if you'd work it out.”

“What's going on?” I asked, confused.

“Mycroft engineered our room-share,” my friend replied. 

“I thought you needed a small _nudge_ ,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I was so _tired_ of your moping, of your total _isolation_. I believed that Dr. Watson here would be a solid match. And I was right, now, wasn't I?”

“Yes, you were right,” said Holmes, his cheeks both swimming dots of red. “For once.”

“I don't quite understand,” I said. “It was _I_ who offered you the spare bed in my room?”

“The Green Room is the only room which has two beds,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Whether you offered, or were asked, it made no matter in the end.”

“You are conniving,” said my friend.

“Well, you can thank me later on,” his brother said. “I have to bid a fond adieu to all these _people_.”

“Holmes,” I said, once we were back inside the hall, “do you suppose that Mycroft _knows?_ ”

“Of course he does,” my friend replied. 

We finished breakfast, and said farewell to the friends and family remaining, then took our bags and strapped them to the waiting carriage which would take us to the station. We spoke little on the way there, and once ensconced in our compartment, we spoke a fair deal less than that. Once we reached London, and the train had called a halt, we called to action.

“When will I see you?” Holmes enquired, an anxious tension in his voice.

“Very soon,” I said. “I love you, please remember that.”

“I love you too,” said he. “It will be torture, but we'll have to manage, won't we?”

We kissed discreetly, left the train, and went our separate ways to reacquaint ourselves with our own lives again, so far away from Surrey, and so remote from how we wanted them to be.

My carriage stopped at Upper Wimpole Street. I sat inside, not moving, for a minute, maybe more. Here was my home; here was my practice, where I worked and made a living as a doctor. I had calls to make, and things to do, and life to carry on. 

I leaned my head out of the carriage.

“All right, guv?” my driver queried.

“I've changed my mind,” I said. “Please turn around. Take me to Baker Street.”

 

\- END -


End file.
